Shades of Blood
by Aeanagwen
Summary: Filia's thoughts on Xellos and Valgarv.


Shades of Blood My first Slayers fanfic, set in the middle of TRY, after the first confrontation with Valgarv.   
  
Namagomi means, literally, raw garbage. It's what Filia calls Xellos. The mazoku are Xellos's race; the ryuuzoku are the dragons. 

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Shades of Blood 

Namagomi mazoku. Damned namagomi mazoku. Why does that _monster _insist on following us around? Always smiling. That smug, self-assured grin. He's not fooling me. I-- 

I'm fooling myself. Why do I call him that? Namagomi... What gives me that right? I know what my elders would say. That we ryuuzoku are the servants of the gods, of Cepheed. Is that how they justify their hypocrisy and scorn for the "lesser races?" But isn't Shabranigdo also a god? Then what makes us any more righteous than the mazoku? Perhaps they have their own standard of good. After all, what do _I _know of mazoku society? 

Xellos would mock me. He's always mocking me. I try so hard not to show this weakness and doubt that plagues me, but every time he opens his eyes, dark amethyst shards shear away my pretense, and every bit of fear and misgiving are laid clear before him. He's centuries older than I, and, in a race that prizes trickery and deception, one of the best at such things. What can I possibly hope to hide from him? The only defenses I have left are outrage and insult. Namagomi mazoku. How you would laugh. 

The name angers him. I wish I knew why. The pretension? The hypocrisy? The over-bearing self-righteousness? I only know that is _does _anger him. It's probably the only weapon I have. 

I should have more self-control. He killed hundreds of my kind; there's nothing to stop him from doing the same to me. I should hate him for that. Part of me does. But the other--the other part of my heart--a part that I never even knew existed until I was forcibly shown that not everything is cast in stark hues of black and white--it questions my right to hate him. For in condemning him for his actions, I condemn my own race. There are times when that despairing corner of my soul wonders if my people are any different than mazoku, only with another god to serve and our own justifications for cruelty. 

Xellos's actions were taken during a war. The gold dragons he was fighting knew the danger. Our own victims were not so fortunate. Yes, if I choose to hate Xellos for the sake of those he's killed, then what else can I do but fully condone the hatred another bears for me? 

Valgarv. 

The enemy spoken of in the prophecy of destruction, who tried to summon darkness to this world. And yet, all I could see when I looked at him was a broken, desperate child. The depths of his grief and rage were endless. They seared me with accusation every time we faced him. His raw pain and burning hatred were like brands of guilt on my soul. 

Everything about him was in conflict. Dark, feathered wings of an Ancient Dragon, but with a horn, and a demon's eyes. The mingled bloods of his two natures were practically at war within him. How much time did he spend in the darkness of the labyrinth, alone, fighting off agony with every shuddering breath, clutching at his ryuuzoku forearm as it pulsed and writhed with mazoku taint? What did that do to his mind? That raging division imbedded in every fiber of his being? 

I find myself wondering what he might have been like before. Before the genocide my people inflicted on his, before he gave himself over to our sworn enemies for his vengeance. I remember the feel of him when he pulled me against his chest, every detail etched into my mind. Strong forearm locked over my collarbone, the trembling play of the muscles beneath the sweating skin. His breath hot against my neck, words growled into my ear. I looked up at him, and saw the feral anticipation and vindictiveness burning in his eyes. The scars left by a dragon's claws curving over his jaw, teeth bared in a savage smile that was almost a snarl. His hair brushing over my face. His scent, screaming at once everything foreign, and yet so familiar. 

And then, when he stood before the demon lord he'd summoned, and smiled as it devoured him. _Smiled! _As though he'd been living for only his vengeance and was content to die, secure in the knowledge that the rest of us would soon follow him into oblivion. 

But we didn't die. He perished, thinking his revenge complete--and we still live. Yet somehow, it feels so unfinished. What have we done, truly? Nothing. Nothing that the prophecy foretold. It isn't over. But Valgarv--is dead. And still I can't forget him, his face, his grief and fury and despair and fear. I can't get him out of my heart. By all rights, I should hate him as much as I should Xellos. But I can't. I can't bring myself to hate someone who was betrayed by his own people, who experienced nothing but pain and loss his entire life. He never knew right from wrong. How could he have? When the beacons of good destroyed his home, and the heralds of evil saved his life. How can you hate someone like that? 

How can you hate someone you think you might love? 

Nothing's clear anymore. I don't even know what I felt--still feel--for him. Even though he's dead--I can't move on. I can't see what's right and wrong through all the life that's been lost. I don't understand anything anymore. Even the starkest of realities have become blurred to my eyes. It's like I've been blinded to the black and white I knew so clearly before, blinded by all the deaths and betrayals. 

All I can see now are the shades of blood. 


End file.
